


Fear for the Winter

by banerries



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Platonic Female/Male Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2059314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banerries/pseuds/banerries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark's life is filled with unsettling and untrustworthy people. The dark, shadowy creature that's been haunting her since childhood is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Cold and Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first non-RP-related fanfic in probably about five years, and my first ever that's not meant to be a oneshot, so we'll see how this goes. I'm not really sure what the conventions are here for crit and stuff, but any kind of feedback is welcome!

Sansa knew she was too old to believe in monsters that lurked in the dark— not here, in Winterfell, on _this_ side of the Wall. They had guards and knights and her father, and none of them would let anything in that would creep around the dark corners of her bedroom.

But then there were the things that wouldn’t need to be let in; things that could sneak through closed windows and slither under locked doors. These were the things that Sansa didn’t believe in— or, at least, didn’t believe in completely. She believed in the way that many thirteen-year-olds did: residually, stubbornly, and not because she wanted to, but because childhood didn’t want to let go of her nearly as much as she wanted to let go of it.

And so, though she would never have wanted to admit it, Sansa would sometimes nervously eye the shadows in her darkened bedroom, convinced that she’d seen them shifting. It’d never happen when she looked at them straight on, and she was usually able to convince herself that it was only her imagination. _Children’s stories_ , she’d think. _For children even younger than Rickon_. Still, on the mornings after those nights, she couldn’t help but lift the furs dangling from her bed and take a peek at the only place in the room that daylight wasn’t able to touch. Arya caught her, once.

“Scared of monsters under the bed?” she teased, standing grinning in the doorway. 

Sansa scoffed, and glowered at her sister. “ _No_. Now, go away. I hear Septa calling you; if you don’t come, she won’t be pleased.”

“Septa’s never pleased,” Arya retorted, but disappeared before Sansa could respond.

Distracted now, Sansa left the bedclothes alone, focusing instead on internally grumbling about bothersome sisters who only ever wanted to tease and make trouble. The fur she’d partially lifted away from the floor stayed where it was, leaving a small section of the shadowy under-bed area exposed. Sansa didn’t notice, and if she had, she wouldn’t have cared. It was daytime, and nobody was scared of the dark in the daytime. She washed, dressed, and left the room without giving it another thought.

As the door closed behind her, the darkness smiled.


	2. Winterfell, Year 289

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using TV canon for this, mainly, so the dates should follow that-- season one starts in Year 298 after Aegon's conquest, so this chapter takes place nine years pre-canon.

The Stark children’s nanny was well known for her scary stories. Generations of them had had the experience of gathering around her, wide-eyed, waiting for each new development with breathless anticipation. Tonight, the audience was comprised of Robb Stark and Jon Snow… and one other.

Old Nan sat on a chair by the window with the two boys at her feet, candlelight flickering across her face as she looked down at them expectantly. She was taking requests. 

“Tell us your _scariest_ one, Nan,” said Robb. “The worst you can think of.” Jon nodded in agreement. His face was more subdued than his half-brother’s, but no less engaged and interested.

“My scariest?” Nan arched a brow at the boys. “You’ve heard a good deal of my tales. Have none of them been exciting enough for you, then?”

Robb shook his head resolutely. “We don’t want a story about heroes and knights. We want a story about monsters. Like the thing that came in the night, or… or something. But something different; a new story.”

Nan thought about this. “Have I told you about Mad Axe?”

“Not human monsters,” Jon cut in. “Tell us about creatures.” Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something move— but when he turned to look, there was nothing there.

Except there was. Pitch Black lurked in the shadowy recesses of Robb’s room, watching the trio. He enjoyed these stories just as much as the children did, and he never missed a night. In fact, he enjoyed them long after the boys had _stopped_ enjoying them. When they were huddled in their beds, shaking under the covers and wishing they had asked to hear about courageous kings and loyal stewards, he was right there alongside them, breathing into their ears and tugging almost imperceptibly at their covers. Eight-year-old boys were eager receptacles for fear when the candles were lit and the castle was still busy around them; later, when they were alone in their bedrooms, Pitch was happy to reap the benefits.

But as Nan started her story, he became aware that it wasn’t just the four of them tonight. They had a visitor. The room’s big wooden door was cracked just slightly, and on the other side, a small girl lingered. Pitch was aware of the younger Stark girls— there was a toddler, and then a slightly older girl. This one was the elder; she couldn’t have been more than four. Pitch had seen her from time to time, existing on the periphery of his attention. She was quiet and obedient, never seeking out trouble or getting herself into dangerous situations. She rarely felt fear. He found her boring.

But her fear was exactly what drew him to her now. It was different from the fun, thrilling fear her brothers were currently feeling. The girl was _terrified_ , and she did not want to be standing there listening, but she couldn’t make herself move. She’d heard the beginning by accident as she’d walked past the room, and now she had to stay and here the rest. Stories always had happy endings, and she needed to hear this one’s; she needed to know that, no matter how terrible it sounded now, it would all turn out right in the end.

“ _Finally_ you’re interesting,” Pitch murmured to her (but really to himself, because he knew she wouldn’t be able to hear). “If only just for tonight.” He drew closer, drinking in that terror, sensing her trembling even from five feet away. He knew this story; he’d heard it told before, even if the children hadn’t. He knew it didn’t have a happy ending.

When it was over, the girl still didn’t move. That wasn’t all; that _couldn’t_ be all. There was no fix, no solution, no knight to ride in and save the day. The ending didn’t make things better— it made things _worse_. Now it wasn’t just fear of the story she was feeling.  If this story didn’t end on a happy note, what did that mean for all the other stories in the world? Could some of them have bad endings, too?

She would never voice these fears to anyone. She didn’t yet have the words to explain them, or even the ability to fully understand them herself. But Pitch could feel them just as strongly as she felt them herself, and he knew what she didn’t: that some level of innocence, however small, had been lost tonight. She was four years old, and in a few days, she’d stop thinking about it. Her quiet, easy life would go on, and eventually, she’d forget it entirely. One story wasn’t enough to make her stop believing in the power of heroes and the valor of knights. But she would never again believe that stories were _required_ to end well.

That night, when the girl hurried back to her room, Pitch followed her. For the first time, he visited neither Robb nor Jon. His entire night was consumed by this little Stark’s first _real_ fears— first waking, than dreaming. And when morning came and she opened her eyes, she found that her room was just a little bit darker than usual.


	3. Winterfell, Year 291

“But… I don’t _want_ to sleep in here.”

“ _Sansa._ ”

“I’m sorry. Don’t be angry.” Sansa could hear the exasperation in her mother’s voice, and it made her tear up. She wasn’t _trying_ to be bad. But she was frightened. She didn’t consciously make the connection back to that night two years ago, when she’d overheard Old Nan’s scary story— all she knew was that when she was alone in her room at night, she didn’t _feel_ alone.

Catelyn felt for her daughter. She’d been growing increasingly reluctant to sleep alone in her bedroom— often wanting to join her and Ned in theirs, or asking for one of them to sleep in hers. Nightmares weren’t uncommon for children of Sansa’s age, she knew, but she also knew that this couldn’t become a habit. As much as she loved her children, she needed to resist coddling them. They’d be better for it.

Taking Sansa’s hands, Catelyn gently lifted the little girl’s chin. “I’m not angry. But you’re a big girl, and I need you to be brave for me. If you think you see something scary in the corner of your room, I want you to close your eyes and _ignore_ it. Do you understand? There isn’t anything in Winterfell that can hurt you, my dear; all you need to do is remember that, and you’ll feel safe.”

Reluctantly, Sansa nodded. “All right, I’ll try.”

“Good girl.” Her mother stood and walked to the bed, drawing back the covers for her to climb in. “Would you like me to tell you a story?” Sansa nodded again, more eagerly this time. Being put to bed by her mother was a special treat; Old Nan was usually the one who handled the children’s nighttime routines. But the others were all sleeping soundly by now, and Sansa had her mother to herself.

Tired and at least somewhat reassured, it didn’t take long for her to drop off to sleep. Relieved, Catelyn whispered the end of her story (one of heroes, knights, and happy endings), kissed her sleeping daughter on the forehead, and tiptoed out of the room. Ned was waiting for her in the hallway.

“It went well,” she said, in answer to the questioning look on his face. “These northern walls are dark stone, and the candlelight plays tricks on young eyes. She just needed her mother tonight.”

 

* * *

 

_I know it’s real_ , Sansa thought to herself, clutching her furs tightly. She’d told her mother she’d ignore it, but she couldn’t. But she also _believed_ her mother— Winterfell was safe, and well-guarded, and nothing that would hurt her could get past the castle’s defenses. 

_I know it’s there, and it’s real. It’s scary._

_But it won’t hurt me._

That compromise was the best she could do for herself. And eventually— after a few more terrified nights, but terrified nights where she _wasn’t_ hurt— she started to believe it. The nightmares didn’t stop, and the feeling of not being alone didn’t go away— but even when it scared her, Sansa never again felt the need to run for protection from it.


	4. Winterfell, Year 294

Pitch couldn’t read minds, but he could read fears— and he was very, very good at it. The words of Sansa’s compromise with herself were lost on him, but the _meaning_ behind it could be felt plainly in the intricacies and nuances of her fear. He felt, he listened… and he understood.

And she became more interesting.

That wasn’t to say his attention never strayed, of course. The world was filled with tantalizing fears, and staying in one place to focus on one girl would have gotten very dull, very quickly. Sansa Stark was but a tiny piece of his life. But when he did visit Winterfell, Pitch found himself spending more and more time watching Sansa and less and less time watching everyone else. As her younger sister Arya got older, he entertained the idea of switching to her, simply because of all the trouble she got into— nothing truly dangerous, so far, though he assumed that would change as she grew older and (presumably) more reckless. But ultimately, she was too stubborn for his tastes; too brash, and too unwilling to respect and listen to her own fears. Spending too much time on her just led to frustration. And so in the end, Sansa remained his preferred Stark. 

On this particular day, Pitch was following along behind her as she hurried down one of the tower staircases, hoping not to be late to her morning lessons. The stone floor of this part of the castle was slick and wet; it had stormed overnight, hard enough for rain to come in through the windows and into the stairwell. And Sansa, normally so dainty and ladylike when she walked, was not being careful.

As a spirit, Pitch was nearly always invisible to humans. They had no reason to believe he was there, and so as far as their eyes were concerned, he wasn’t. But sometimes, they could still sense him in other ways— they’d feel his hand brush their arm, or the hairs on the backs of their necks would stand up for no discernible reason, or they’d just have the undeniable feeling that they were being _watched_. And once Pitch had gotten their attention, he could often get them to hear him. 

They wouldn’t know it was coming _from him,_ of course. When he spoke out loud to a human, they didn’t hear it directly. To them, it seemed more like something that was coming from their subconscious— a voice in the back of their head, internal rather than external. It was that little trick that he used to speak to Sansa now.

“ _If you slipped and fell down those stairs, you’d break your neck_ ,” he said, whipping the end of his long black cloak into her path.

Sansa slowed, hesitating. She didn’t want to be late; Septa said tardiness was rude. But the steps were wet— what if she slipped? She could be badly hurt, and nobody would want that. No, when she got downstairs she’d just have to apologize and explain that she’d had to go slowly; surely Septa would understand. With that thought in mind, Sansa continued downwards, at a more reasonable pace this time.

Pitch stayed behind, watching her go. That was definitely _not_ a trick that would have worked with her sister, he reflected. Had a little voice in the back of Arya’s head warned her about going too fast on wet stone, she would have ignored it— if anything, it would have made her go faster. He’d made a good choice. _This_ one not only endured those unpleasant nighttime fears that he brought, but she also knew how to listen to the fears that were more constructive, too.

Whatever form it took, Pitch Black’s fear was not something to be taken lightly. With just a whisper, it could plant seeds that human minds would cultivate and grow into something _huge_. It could start wars and end lives; spark rebellions and topple dynasties. And this morning, it had saved a little girl from a nasty fall down the stairs.


	5. Winterfell, Year 298

As Sansa grew, it became easier and easier to ignore things that were out of the ordinary. Still, she was never able to completely shake that feeling that she’d had for as long as she could remember: the feeling that, when she was alone, she sometimes _wasn’t_ alone. And so, in lieu of getting rid of it, she simply got used to it. She became unnaturally good at only seeing what she wanted to see. Ghosts and shadow monsters just weren’t things that _existed_ in her world, and so she paid them no attention. Unlike Arya, she was perfectly happy with her place; her role. Her life made sense. She had no desire to change or break that— especially not now, when everything was falling into place so perfectly.

So much had happened in the past few days. Lying in bed, Sansa’s head was reeling with it. The king had arrived in Winterfell, to personally ask her father to be his Hand. He wanted to join their houses— Baratheon and Stark, lion and wolf, _Joffrey and Sansa_. She’d had days to let it sink in, and it still gave her a little thrill whenever she thought about it (which was, of course, often). Prince Joffrey was any girl’s dream come true: he was handsome, dashing, and gentlemanly. Oh, and then there was the _queen_. So refined, so regal, so everything Sansa wanted to be.

 _So everything you’ll_ never _be,_ a little voice whispered in her head. _You grew up in the North; what makes you think you’re good enough for the southern capital? Good enough for them? Good enough for_ him _? Next to all those fancy southern ladies, you’ll look no different from Arya._

But that wasn’t true, was it? Arya didn’t _try_ , but Sansa did. And she’d keep trying. She’d pay attention and learn quickly, and make sure to never do or say anything that would make King Robert regret suggesting the deal or her father regret saying yes (which he would; he just _had_ to). And everything would be perfect.

And with that, any niggling whispers and nagging fears were effectively shut out. She was tired and worn out, but not in a bad way. Her days were getting busier, and she was sure that that trend would only continue from now on. It was time to get some rest. She’d want to be up bright and early tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that…

For both the first and the last time in a long, long while, Sansa Stark fell asleep entirely fearless.


	6. The Kingsroad, Year 298

All in all, Pitch honestly didn’t really care about Sansa’s newfound ability to not just get used to him, but to block him out entirely. His focus on her was nothing personal, and his aim wasn’t to torture her. Still, he thought _less_ of her because of it. What a silly, naive thing to do, ignoring her fears like that. Fears were important. Fears _told_ you things. She was naive in plenty of other ways, of course, but he didn’t fault her for those. For one thing, they had nothing to do with fear, and so they were outside of his domain; for another thing, they were relatively normal for a noble girl of her age. But sheltered, noble girls needed to pay attention to their own emotions just as much as— perhaps _more_ than— everyone else. If she wasn’t going to do that, then he wasn’t going to waste his time on her. The world was filled with people a lot more satisfying than Sansa Stark was right now. 

So he took a break from her— whether it would be a long break or a short break remained to be seen, but Pitch had a feeling that he would not be returning to Sansa. Once a human became boring, they rarely became interesting again; that was just the way things were.

Still, he didn’t stop coming to Winterfell entirely. Sansa’s brother Bran had started developing some very unique fears of his own, and he didn’t want to miss out on those. But for the first time in seven years, Sansa faded back into the periphery— until the day he showed up at the castle after a few days’ absence and found her and half her family gone.

Obviously, he had to find them— find _her_. Boring or not, he didn’t pay attention to someone for _seven years_ only to allow them to slip out from under his nose so easily. He listened around Winterfell for a while, trying to see if anyone knew exactly where they were, but the only thing he was able to determine was that they had set off for King’s Landing after all. 

And so Pitch set off for King’s Landing, too.

Luckily, it didn’t take long for him to figure out how far along they'd gotten. At each stop along the Kingsroad, it was obvious whether or not the King’s party had already gone through: if they hadn’t, everybody was riled up in anticipation, and if they had, everybody was talking about how exciting the event had been. Using the darkness to travel quickly, Pitch was finally able to narrow down their location, and arrived at the Crossroads Inn the night before they were due to leave. 

He noticed immediately that all was not well. There wasn’t a lot of _fear_ , exactly, but there was anger and frustration and tension. Pitch may not have been able to sense it innately the way he could with fear, but anyone could notice dark looks, slamming doors, harsh whispers… and crying girls closed away in their bedrooms.

“Do you think it hurt?” Sansa asked, wiping her tearstained face with a lace handkerchief.

“Hush now,” Septa Mordane murmured, lightly patting her charge on the back. “Don’t think about it now, dear.”

“But Lady was so gentle. She shouldn’t have— if she was in pain—“

“I’m sure your father made it as quick as he could. He knew how much she meant to you.”

 _Lady?_ Pitch had to think for a moment before remembering— that was her direwolf. She’d never shown up in Sansa’s fears, and so he’d scarcely paid attention. Why should he? Sansa _herself_ meant nothing to him.

But as he watched Sansa in her grief, he came to a realization. This girl’s life was getting bigger and scarier every day, and whatever resolve she’d made to ignore her fear wasn’t going to last. She’d been boring for a short time, but _now_ … now, she was rapidly becoming interesting again.

His feeling before had been wrong. He was most certainly not done with Sansa Stark.


	7. King’s Landing, Year 298

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since I updated this! I haven't abandoned this story, I just took a lengthy and unexpected hiatus from it. I'm definitely planning on continuing it, though, so hopefully there won't be such a long gap between this chapter and the next one.

To Sansa, the capital was so many things at once: confusing, unknown, exhilarating, _terrifying_. She loved it. It didn’t make her forget about Lady— nothing could make her forget about Lady— but it provided a much-needed distraction. She’d just arrived, but already, it felt like home. A part of that had to do with the return of her old fears. At some point, they’d settled back into her, and it had been like they’d never gone in the first place. Strangely, she didn’t mind it. It made her feel as if there was one familiar thing in a sea of change.

But that didn’t mean she paid them much mind. There was simply too much going on in her waking life for her to spend much time dwelling on bad dreams. She had plenty of other things to occupy her time: morning preparations with handmaidens, walks in the gardens, lunches with the queen, Joffrey.

  _Joffrey._

Lady hadn’t been his fault, of course. She couldn’t blame him for anything that had happened that day on the Kingsroad, not even the nastiness with Arya’s little servant friend. And she couldn’t blame his mother either— if their positions had been switched, she was sure her own mother would have been every bit as furious as Cersei had been. No, she didn’t blame any of them. Joffrey had been wonderfully sympathetic and apologetic to her about the entire thing. He’d hated to see her cry; he’d told her to stop, and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. He’d promised her she could have another pet, a dog, when they married— or two, or five, or ten, or whatever her heart desired. And if her memory ever strayed back to that afternoon on the riverbank, and how furious and _hateful_ he’d looked… well. She did what she always did when she thought she saw something dark and unpleasant lurking in the shadows of her life. She closed her eyes, and she ignored it.

She was, after all, unnaturally good at only seeing what she wanted to see.


	8. King’s Landing, Year 298

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because there are some lines in this chapter that could possibly be interpreted in a “leading up to shipping” way, I’m just going to clarify here that that’s not where this story is headed! Pitch is an inhuman, aloof spirit, so vague, almost-caring feelings of any kind make him feel weird and confused when they’re directed at mortals.

Pitch had always liked the North. It was darker and danker than much of the rest of the world, which was always a plus, but that wasn’t all. There was something about it that inspired a healthy respect for fear in the people who lived there. Maybe it was the long winter, or maybe it was living so close to the Wall— but whatever it was, Pitch appreciated that the Starks and the rest of their kind never forgot that _winter was coming_ — and that they never forgot what winter represented. They wouldn’t have liked to hear it, but it was an attitude similar to that of the Free Folk, who Pitch also spent a good deal of time around.

Because of all this, it was no surprise that he had to perform some impressive mental gymnastics to justify to himself why he was now spending so much time in the south. Things were heating up there politically, he reasoned. Political tension inspired all kinds of fear and uncertainty, especially in a big capital city like King’s Landing. With things the way they were, this was a natural place to be. Oh, and there was Sansa Stark, but she was only an added bonus— if she was even that. Her fear was minimal these days, after all— not gone entirely, never gone entirely, but not at the forefront of her mind, either. If Pitch continued to spend a lot of time watching her closely, it was only because he was waiting for that to change.

He didn’t particularly approve of the Joffrey situation, though.

Of course, as he was always quick to remind himself, it didn’t matter whether he approved— not to him, not to Sansa, not to anything or anybody. Joffrey was cruel and capricious and quick to anger, and the fact that Sansa didn’t notice that and feel the fear appropriate to the situation was a source of irritation to Pitch, but that was all. She deserved better, certainly, but that was just a detached, objective observation. _Anyone_ could see that. It was an intellectual opinion, not an emotional one. Pitch had his preferred humans, but saying that he genuinely _cared_ for any of them would be going too far. Sansa was interesting and her fear was sweet, but her emotional and physical well-being were of no consequence to him. There was no reason for her deepening entanglement of Joffrey to leave a sour taste in his mouth or make him feel like a heavy stone had settled in the pit of his stomach.

So when it did _anyway_ , Pitch didn’t know what to think. His first instinct was to flee King’s Landing— get out and stay out, for as long as it took to purge himself of these confusing, uncomfortable feelings. But that would be admitting that he was feeling something that a fear spirit shouldn’t, and he wasn’t going to do that. He pushed it out of his mind instead, and stubbornly continued on the way he had been ever since Ned Stark and his girls had relocated— making many forays out into the wider world, but always, always returning to King’s Landing. And when he sparked fear in Sansa’s heart— for his own benefit, and for the silly girl’s own good— he refused to to read anything more into it.

If anything, he was harsher on her than ever before, a side effect of his frustration both at himself and at her. She thought she was being good and proper and cooperative, paying attention to all the right things (dresses, hairstyles, how to walk and talk and act and _think_ ), and ignoring all the things she shouldn’t see (everything she saw— or thought she saw— out of the corner of her eye, but was gone the moment she turned to look at it head-on). But as a creature who _existed_ in that space just out of the corner of people’s eyes, Pitch knew that it was often what you thought— but weren’t quite sure— you saw that you needed to pay attention to the most.

He walked with Sansa and her Septa to the throne room one day, casually keeping pace behind them, close enough to whisper into Sansa’s ear and feed dark tendrils of insecurity into her thoughts.

“Someday, your husband will sit there, and you will sit by his side,” Mordane intoned, sounding matter-of-fact and confident. Sansa looked less so. “And one day, before too long, you will present your son to the court. All the lords of Westeros will gather here to see the little prince.”

 _It’s a nice story, isn’t it. But what if a little prince isn’t what’s in your future?_  

“What if I have a girl?”

“Gods be good, you’ll have boys _and_ girls, and plenty of them.”

_But what if…_

“What if I _only_ have girls?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“Jeyne Poole’s mother had five children, all of them girls.”

“Yes. But it’s highly unlikely.”

_But…_

“But _what if_?”

Pitch smiled. The need for him to feed her specifics became less and less important as the conversation went on. All he needed to do was lay the groundwork, and Sansa’s mind took it and ran with it, coming up with the rest all on its own. 

It was beautiful, really, the way fear spread.

 


	9. King’s Landing, Year 298

Sansa Stark ( _Sansa Baratheon_ , she whispered to herself, alone at night in her room) was a real southern lady now, in all ways. She’d seen a man die at the Hand’s tourney. She’d been given a rose by the handsomest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, and a beautiful necklace by her betrothed. All vestiges of her old life at Winterfell— the outdated clothes, the plain jewelry, the silly little hair ribbons— had been packed away practically since her arrival, and she doubted she would ever need them for anything ever again. Maybe someday they’d be dress-up clothes for a little princess, or a talking point for a future king. _Once upon a time, your mother was a plain noble girl from the North, until a handsome young prince came and swept her away…_

Her Septa had told her not to forget where she came from, but what she didn’t understand was that Sansa wasn’t forgetting. She was moving on and looking forward, the way women did.

So when her father called for her and Arya and gave them the worst news imaginable, Sansa reeled in shock and horror— because going back to Winterfell wasn’t _going home_ anymore, it was going back to her _childhood_. It was taking backward steps right at a time when she was supposed to be moving ahead. How would her mother have felt, if the Tullys had suddenly reclaimed her and dragged her back to Riverrun, telling her to forget her husband and family? That, Sansa thought, was exactly like what was happening now. It didn’t matter that her mother had been a Stark for decades and Sansa had only just been promised to Joffrey. She _belonged_ with him now, and her father couldn’t just take all that away.

She tried to slip away, to hunt down Joffrey or the queen. Surely they would see reason and understand why she needed to stay, even if Arya was sent back. Her sister still belonged to the North, but for Sansa, there was no safer place than with her future family. Her father just needed to be reminded of that.

But Septa Mordane was adamant, and her father’s guards wouldn’t budge from their stations at her door. She needed to do as she was told, they said, and pack her things quickly in preparation for leaving. She needn't worry. There was no reason to be frightened. 

She didn’t understand why they said that. It was like telling her there was no reason to think the sky was green. 

Confused and agitated, left all alone in her room, Sansa sank down onto her bed and wept. There was no reason to be frightened, because being frightened of King’s Landing was unthinkable— but for some reason, there was a part of her that was. Her father’s pronouncement had catapulted her back into feeling like a very little girl again— because even though she wasn’t, clearly _he_ thought she was, or else he wouldn’t have been doing this to her. She was an engaged woman, and yet she was locked in her room at the mercy of her father, crying like a child. In the corner near the wardrobe, she even thought she saw something move in the shadows, the way she often had when she was young and scared and alone.

“I am _not_ a _child_ ,” she said out loud, feeling strangely like she was talking to someone even though the room was empty.

The shadows didn’t answer. They never did.


	10. King’s Landing, Year 298

King’s Landing was in chaos. Sansa didn’t realize it, but Pitch knew. He was familiar with how things like this happened— and by the morning of the Stark girls’ departure, he knew that there was no way the Lannisters were going to let them leave. Even before the fighting started, the writing was on the wall.

He couldn’t warn her. But if he could have, would he have? He told himself no. He was fairly certain that he meant it. Still, he stuck close, even though he would be hard-pressed to find someone _less_ afraid than Sansa Stark right now. That could change in an instant. Everything could change in an instant.

And sure enough, as Sansa hurried after Septa Mordane, they nearly walked right into a battle. The silly girl was oblivious, chattering away about her sister. Pitch tried to whisper some thoughts into her ear ( _What’s that noise up ahead? It sounds like fighting, doesn’t it? The clashing of swords?_ ), but it didn’t work; she was too distracted. In the end, it was her septa that got through to her. Once she saw the look on her tutor’s face and heard the quaver in her voice, the fear started to trickle in.

Mordane sent Sansa back to her room. Pitch went with her. When she was apprehended and taken before the queen, he went with her there, too.

Her reaction to hearing of her father’s supposed crimes was about what Pitch had expected it would be.

“He wouldn’t do that,” she protested, respectfully but adamantly. She wanted them to bring him and and let him explain himself— she was so sure that that would work. Sansa still thought her father could fix anything. Pitch thought about leaning in and whispering something ( _What if they don’t believe him?_ , maybe, or even _But what if they’re right?_ ). He could so easily drive her to panic right now.

But he didn’t. He sat back and watched Sansa’s life unravel around her.

After that, everything moved very quickly. Ned rotted in the dungeons. Arya remained missing. Sansa was constantly under the eye and the thumb of the queen. She repeatedly asked for mercy for her father and the rest of her family, and Pitch almost pitied her for her naivety. Even as the small council humored her words and debated them amongst themselves, everybody knew that the final decision rested on Joffrey’s shoulders— and nearly everybody knew what Joffrey’s verdict was likely to be.

Ned’s confession was to be done publicly, in front of everyone, at the Sept of Baelor. Sansa was, of course, kept right at the queen’s side. She tried to look calm and regal for the crowd, and smiled gently at her father as he passed by. None of it reached her eyes.

Nobody’s fear was as sweet as Sansa’s today, but Pitch still flitted around the crowd, ramping up other people’s confusion and uncertainty. As lovely as her fear was, something about her presence was overwhelming to him right now, and he was surprised when he recognized the source of it— he was _sad_ for her. Not intensely so, but enough to make him uncomfortable. He found himself avoiding looking at her directly, as if he was afraid of somehow making eye contact.

Ned stood in front of the population of King’s Landing and told lies. Two daughters watched— one angry and confused, the other heartbroken but hopeful. One boy dashed those hopes, in the worst possible way. Sansa screamed and was held back, but no one covered her eyes. “Don’t look,” Pitch said— not spreading fear, not whispering into her ear, but talking as if he were a human and she could hear him.

She couldn’t. She looked.

 

* * *

 

After, she was sent back to her room and told that she could not come out. She had fainted at the execution; clearly seeing justice being done had been too much for her weak woman’s heart to take, and she needed rest.

Rest didn’t come. Tears didn’t come either, even though she wanted them to. Her eyes felt heavy and raw, as if she’d been crying for hours without realizing it. She sat at the end of her bed, hands clasped in her lap, eyes focused on the floor. Over by the wardrobe, she thought she saw the shadows move again. This time, she didn’t close her eyes. She didn’t ignore it. She lifted her head, and she looked straight at it.

It was a man. He wasn’t hidden in the shadows so much as he was a _part_ of the shadows, and he was watching Sansa carefully, the way one does when they think there’s no way that they can be watched back. It took him a moment to realize what she was doing, but when he did, their eyes locked.

The room was dead silent until Sansa finally spoke.

“… I know you. I know who you are.”


	11. King’s Landing, Year 298

Pitch stood completely still. There was no way she could be talking to him, because there was no way she could be _seeing_ him. She was obviously addressing someone else in the room.

Except there _was_ no one else in the room, and he knew it.

“You’re the monster that hid underneath my bed when I was a child,” Sansa continued, her tone almost accusatory. “And in my wardrobe, and in dark corners.”

“Yes,” Pitch said slowly. “I am.”

“But I don’t understand. What are you doing _here_?”

There were so many ways he could have responded to that question - so many reasons, so many answers. He decided to pick the simplest one.

“I’m always here.”

Sansa looked at him— her eyes wary, her face exhausted. She’d been through an ordeal today, and yet here she was, having a chat with a fear spirit. Pitch couldn’t help but feel a little impressed. In spite of her trauma (or perhaps because of it— she’d been through the worst already, so what was one more terrible thing?), she wasn’t screaming or crying or trying to run away. She was afraid, but she was facing it— numbly, if not bravely.

“If you’re always here, then you saw.”

“Yes.”

“You saw what he did to my father.”

“Yes.”

“Did you…” She paused, both wanting and not wanting to ask. “Did you make him do it?”

“No.”

“Can’t you say more than ‘yes’ and ‘no’?” she asked crossly. Pitch narrowed his eyes.

“Yes. I’m not… used to speaking with humans.” Every word he said to her felt unnatural. If feeling a vague sense of sadness for a human had been overwhelming, having an actual _conversation_ with one was even more so. He should leave. He could do so easily. 

He didn’t.

Sansa rose to her feet and walked over to the head of the bed, putting a little more distance between them. “If you’re not a human, then what are you?”

“No, no,” Pitch said, holding up a finger. “It’s my turn for a question. Why can you see me now, and how did you recognize me?” It wasn’t something he really expected her to be able to answer— how could she? She wouldn’t know anything about spirits. But all the same, he wanted to hear what she’d say.

“I…” Sansa frowned, thinking. She didn’t know why, or how— she just _did_. When she’d seen him, it was as if something had clicked into place. She’d always known that he was there, but she’d only just now realized that she’d known.

“You’re my fear, aren’t you?” she asked. “My fear made into a man.”

If she'd been closer, she would have seen his eyes widen. “And you’re a riddle, Sansa Stark. But I think it’s time for me to go.” He walked backwards, deeper into the shadows. By the time Sansa was brave enough to get up and go look, there was no more trace of him anywhere in the room.


	12. King's Landing, Year 298

Sansa looked for her fear man every day after that. Whenever there was a dark corner or a shadowy area of a room, she stared at it hard, trying to see him. She never could. There was never even a flicker of movement.

After nearly a week, she came to accept that the conversation she’d had that night had just been a dream. She’d been exhausted and stressed, and she’d imagined a companion— one that was her own fear personified, separate and distinct from herself. But that was silly. Her fear was tucked away deep inside her, and it wasn’t a companion. It was just her. She was alone.

Now that she was the daughter of a traitor, Joffrey and the queen didn’t bother to be kind to Sansa. They weren’t often openly cruel, but she felt their contempt when they looked at her, and she was no longer heartbroken over it. Any illusions she’d had, and any desire to please them, had evaporated the moment Sir Ilyn had raised his sword. Something else settled in her heart, next to the fear. She wondered if one night she’d dream about talking with a man made out of her hate, too.

 

* * *

 

Pitch didn’t leave King’s Landing after Sansa saw him, but he was very, very careful not to reveal himself to her again. It wasn’t that he hated the idea of being seen— quite the opposite, in fact. It had _thrilled_ him, and he’d immediately wanted _more_ — more interaction, more visibility, more direct influence, and not just with her. With _everyone_. He hadn’t felt that strongly the few times he’d spoken with humans in the past. It was, he thought, because he’d spent so much of his time watching Sansa. Her finally seeing him after so long had been far more satisfying than any time it had happened with others, and it had carried more weight, too. He imagined being seen again, and again, and again, until knowledge of his existence passed into common legend. He imagined there being stories of _him_ , like there were about wights and White Walkers.

All this, from one little conversation with one little human girl. The strength and depth of what it made him feel overwhelmed him.

So he hid in plain sight— still lurking in the shadows, but being more careful about it, making sure to only pick places there were really and truly _pitch black_. This didn’t mean that he would never show himself again, of course, but he needed time to collect himself. He always made a point of being around when she was paraded before the court, though, or alone with Joffrey or Cersei. She was usually so unresponsive and contained when she was with them now. He was curious about whether they would fully break her.

The idea perturbed him.

The day that Joffrey took Sansa out to see the heads mounted along the castle wall, it was too bright and sunny out for Pitch to follow too closely— not if he didn’t want Sansa to see him. He stayed inside the castle, following along and peeking at them through windows, straining to hear. Joffrey was the one who spoke, mostly. Sansa and their guard escort stayed silent.

“—raise my armies and kill your traitor brother, I’m going to give you his head as well.”

Sansa didn’t avert her eyes from the severed head of Septa Mordane. “Or maybe he’ll give me yours.”

“Oh- _ho!_ ” Pitch couldn’t help it— he had to laugh at that. It had been a very unwise thing to say, and she would pay for it, likely in more ways than one. But despite her blank stares and dead eyes, she still had some fight in her.

Something about that satisfied Pitch.

 

* * *

 

Sansa heard him, but it didn’t fully register right away. She was too focused on everything else— the horrifying sight of her father (her _father_ ) and her septa, the flash of white-hot anger at Joffrey, the pain of Ser Meryn’s twin slaps. It was only when she was left alone with her thoughts that she recalled the laugh— that familiar voice that she had only ever heard that one night, but that she knew she would never forget.

She turned to the window, and lifted her hand in a shaky wave.


	13. King’s Landing, Year 298

“Did I scare you, when I guessed what you are?”

“You didn’t scare me,” Pitch said sharply. “You’re a human, and I’m a spirit of fear; there’s nothing you could do that could scare me. You _surprised_ me.”

“And then you left.”

“And then I came back.”

“You _left_.” Sansa, again sitting on the end of her bed, looked hurt. Petulant, Pitch thought. Like the child that she was. “I looked for you.”

“I saw.”

“But how could you have? You were gone.”

Pitch sighed heavily, crossing the room in long strides. Pacing. “I left as far as you were concerned. I didn’t make contact. I—” He almost says _I hid myself_ , but that sounds too much like conceding to her original guess— that he’d been _scared_. “I know how to keep myself unseen.” 

“I wish you hadn’t.” Still with that quivering lower lip; those big wide eyes. Pitch rolled his.

“I’m not someone whose company you should look forward to. I don’t drop by for tea or ale. I’m not your friend.”

“You aren’t a Lannister.” She— unsurprisingly— said the name like it was a dirty word. “Or… him.” Pitch laughed.

“And thank your gods for that.”

“‘Your gods’?” Sansa leaned forward slightly, eager to learn more about this strange man. “Does that mean you worship the Seven? Or… do you not worship any gods at all?”

“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” Pitch took a few steps towards her, just to see what she would do.

She didn’t shrink back from him. Curious.

“You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to,” she said. “But I would like to learn more about you, if I may.”

“You can learn a lot by watching,” Pitch replied. “And I suggest you get in the habit of doing that. It’ll serve you well, for however long you’re here.” But he was beginning to feel overwhelmed again, and so he started to edge back towards the shadows. “It’s time for you to stop closing your eyes to what’s in front of you, Sansa— the way you have with me.” He lifted a hand and waved, just as she had done to him earlier that day. Then he melted into the darkness. 

He’d looked surprised to hear that she was interested in him, Sansa had noticed. The thought made her a little sad. Perhaps he was as lonely as she was right now. Perhaps they could be friends to each other. At the very least, she knew she wanted to get to know her fear. She had a feeling she would be seeing a lot more of it in the future.

In time, the pair established an unspoken pattern. Sansa would sometimes see Pitch around the castle as she went about her daily life (or, more accurately, was dragged about her daily life; she was always at Joffrey’s beck and call), but she would never acknowledge him with more than a quick glance. She knew now that nobody else could see him. But often, he would come out again after she’d retired to her room for the night, and they’d chat. Their conversations never lasted for very long, and they were never very deep or involved— Sansa had the feeling he was still getting accustomed to talking to her. But she came to look forward to their talks, and to see them as the one bright moment of each day.

She wasn’t sure how he would feel about that. And so she never told him.


	14. King's Landing, Year 299

“You’re getting better.”

A few weeks ago, Sansa would have yelped or jumped in surprise. Now, however, she was used to the familiar disembodied voice that sometimes piped up when she was alone. She looked up from her sewing. Her eyes told her that he wasn’t there— that the room was empty, save for her. But her ears and her heart knew differently.

“Better at what?”

“At _this_.” Pitch stepped forward out of the shadows, spreading an arm out wide to indicate not just the little bedroom they were in, but all of King’s Landing. “You handle him well.”

“You mean Joffrey.” Sansa looked down at her lap. “He frightens me.”

“Of course he does. He _should_. If he didn’t, you’d be an idiot.”

“You’re happy that he scares me, aren’t you?” she asked sullenly. “I can tell that you are.” Pitch didn’t deny it. His body language was casual, and unchanged by her annoyance. He was unashamed. Sansa’s brow furrowed. “Why do you talk to me at all? Is it only because you like seeing me miserable?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m a spirit of fear, not of mis—”

“Don’t call me silly,” Sansa snapped. Pitch, still unruffled, just shrugged.

“Then don’t _act_ silly. And if you remember, I _also_ paid you a compliment. If you really must feel indignant, at least remember that.”

But Sansa didn’t care. Her eyes blazed as she glared at Pitch, a part of her grateful that he wasn’t still standing in the darkness— she _would_ have felt silly, if she had to try lecturing a disembodied voice. “It isn’t fair. You’re _my_ fear man, and you shouldn’t treat me like they do. Every day I have to be quiet and courteous as they insult me and my family. If _they_ call me silly, I have to agree with them. I won’t hear it from you, too. If you really wanted to help me, you'd scare Joffrey." She stood suddenly, her sewing tumbling off her lap and falling to the floor. "You could, couldn't you? You could make him let me go. Why don’t you do _that_?”

Pitch didn’t normally go out of his way to scare or intimidate Sansa. She was already so scared, so much of the time, and he rarely felt the urge for _more_ from her anymore. But it wasn’t a desire for more fear that had him quickly crossing the room towards her now, face hard and eyes narrowed. He wasn’t just looking for a meal as he loomed over her, hoping to see her cower.

“You do _not_ get to tell me what you will and won’t hear from me, _silly child_. Do you think I’m your servant? That I _belong_ to you? I was here before your parents’ parents’ parents were born, and I’ll still be here long after _you_ are dead and in the ground.” He was angry, he realized— but that didn't make sense, because he didn’t _get_ angry at humans. They weren’t worth enough to him as individuals for anything they said or did to affect him that much. As he’d fed off of Sansa’s fear, how many times had he reminded himself that it wasn’t personal? But now it was— and whether he’d admitted it to himself or not, it had been for a while.

He abruptly backed off, unsure of how to feel about this new revelation. A human had offended him. A human had _mattered_ enough to offend him.

He whirled around without another word and stalked back off towards the corner. In spite of her own anger, Sansa couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anxiety. If he never came back, she really would be alone.

“Are you leaving for good?”

“No.” But he gave no more explanation than that before storming off into the shadows and disappearing entirely.


	15. Interlude - The Spirit of Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much happens in this chapter, I know, but it's a little bonus for any of you who are familiar with Pitch’s canon and have been wondering if any of the other characters exist in this AU. ;) Sorry for such a long length of time between updates! I’ve been back in school, and I've also been dealing with a lot of RL stuff. I have no intention of abandoning this story, and ideally I’d like to try to update more frequently going forward, but realistically updates will probably still be somewhat sporadic.

The wind was strong and biting, and to a human, it would have been painful. Not to Pitch. He sat atop the Wall wearing the same shadowy robe he always wore, and he was no worse off for it. It was one of the many benefits of being a spirit— he could _feel_ the cold, but it didn’t bother him.

It as an uneventful night. Other than the wind, the loudest sound was the crunch of boots on snow as the night guards patrolled along the Wall. Every time one of them approached where Pitch was sitting, they’d speed up until they’d passed him. Pitch never bothered to look at them, but he could hear the pattern in their footsteps change— _crunch_ , _crunch_ , _crunch_ , _crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch_ , _crunch_ , _crunch_ , _crunch._ None of them could see him, but they sensed his presence, and it made them uneasy. He took comfort in that fact.

Suddenly, off in the distance, there was another sound— a _laugh_. One of the guards heard it, or thought he did. He looked up, confused, and peered out into the wilderness. When he saw nothing, he shook his head at himself, deciding that the wind was playing tricks on him. He must have imagined it.

But he hadn’t. Pitch knew.

Even though his hair was pure white, the spirit of winter looked barely older than a boy. He laughed like a boy too, loudly and freely. When the wind picked up, he jumped into the air and caught it like a wave, riding it all the way up to the top of the wall.

“I haven’t seen _you_ around in a while.” He tapped Pitch on the shoulder with his long wooden staff. Pitch grumbled irritably, giving it a shove.

“I’ve been away.”

“Not in Winterfell. I was there last week, and last month, and— _hey_ , were you still in the south?”

Pitch nodded, reluctantly. “I was.”

“No wonder it’s been so long!” The smaller spirit broken into a grin, which Pitch did not return. “Now that winter’s coming, I’ve been coming to this side of the Wall more, but I haven’t made it down south yet.” Pitch _hmmm_ ed in response, broody and disinterested, which made his companion frown.

“Not that I’m not used to you being unfriendly, but… is it just me, or are you worse than usual today?”

Pitch turned to face him, finally, and gave him a long, flat look. This particular spirit— _Jack Frost_ — had always irritated him a bit. And yet…

“You enjoy the humans.”

Jack’s grin widened. “Sure I do.”

Perhaps he wouldn’t be a bad person to talk with about this after all.

“Have you ever met one that could see you?”

“I—” Jack scratched his head with the top of his staff, faltering a little. “Sort of? I think the people out beyond the wall can see me out of the corners of their eyes sometimes, and a few decades ago there was a man of the Night’s Watch who—” But Pitch is already shaking his head.

“No. Have you ever met one that could _see_ you?”

Jack’s silence was answer enough.

“That’s what I thought,” Pitch said. “I have.”

“You _have_?” Jack’s eyes went wide. “You’re _kidding_. You— you’re kidding!”

“I’m _not_ ,” Pitch snapped. “And it’s quite a bit more irritating than you’re imagining it to be, so stop gaping. It’s not impossible, nor is it unheard of. It’s _rare_ , which is why it hasn’t happened to you, but I’ve been around for far longer than you have.”

“But it’s still special. You’re so…” _Lucky_. Jack was jealous— it showed plainly on his face. It wasn’t fair. He’d be beyond thrilled if he met a human that could see him, and Pitch was out on the Wall _brooding_? What a waste.

“It’s one of the Stark children,” Pitch explained. “The older girl.”

“She’s why you’ve been in the south so much,” Jack said slowly. He spent most of his time at the Wall and beyond it, but Winterfell was close enough that he was familiar with the goings-on of its inhabitants. “You followed her.”

Pitch harrumphed, but didn’t deny it. “She’s become a thorn in my side. She sees me as someone to give orders to— as if I were one of her servants, or a _plaything_. She doesn’t understand why I speak to her.”

“Why _do_ you speak to her?”

Pitch faltered at the question. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know why, but he didn’t feel very comfortable admitting it to himself, much less to somebody else. He rose to his feet, looking down at Jack. “I have my reasons. She’s a very fearful child.”

Jack’s expression turned sour. Poor girl. “Then maybe it’s good that you’re here. She sounds like she deserves a break from you. She deserves… _better_.”

“But that’s not the _point_!” A nearby Watchman felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, though he didn’t know why. “I am _not_ here to give her a _break_. I don’t _give breaks_. I don’t scare children’s tormenters for them. I’m not a companion. I don’t make their lives _happier_.”

Jack Frost was looking at him with disgust. Of course he was. The little winter spirit didn’t understand the realities of the human world. He saw all their ugliness from the outside, as an observer, and he felt free to cast judgement over something that he felt secure in knowing he would never have to be a part of. Sansa Stark did deserve better. Pitch knew it. And, perhaps, that was part of the problem, because he also knew just how unlikely she was to get it.

With a frustrated snarl and a swirl of his robe, Pitch left, and the winter went on without him.


End file.
